


the Bard of Kaer Morhen

by no_notea



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Branding, Drabble, Hurt No Comfort, I wrote this within the hour, Jaskier is owned by Kaer Morhen, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Touching, One Shot, Rape/Non-con Elements, dead dove : do not eat, no beta we just die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_notea/pseuds/no_notea
Summary: "My children like you, bardling. They like you more than they ever care to admit."Vesemir returned to Jaskier's side, holding aloft an iron rod, a branding iron. Used on livestock and embedded in slaves to ensure ownership.Jaskier had a feeling he was neither of thoseHe wishes he never came to Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 327





	the Bard of Kaer Morhen

**Author's Note:**

> heed the tags please, thank you

Jaskier should've never come here.

He would follow Geralt to the ends of the Continent and beyond, suffer the risk of injury, disease, death for his Witcher. But not this.  
No, he never expected this. 

Arms tied above him, legs bound at the ankles, he lay squirming and sweating on the metal table. Where Jaskier's body lay was now warm to the touch, he's been here for so long, endured more and more than he thought he ever could. They told him - the other Witchers, not Geralt, Geralt would never, where _was he_ \- that he had a series of trials to complete before they could... make their mark.

The bard had come with Geralt to Kaer Morhen. The entire winter fled past without too much tension but now, as the snow begins to melt, he finds himself in this dungeon, naked and bound and left in the dark about what the fuck is happening.

He was injected with various kinds of liquids, drank several potions, and he didn't understand it - all he knew was his body was changing. He could feel it in the way his skin tingled, the way his brain muddled things together, the fact he could _smell everything_. The mossy stones, the snow melting outside, each individual Witcher present had their own smell - and none of them were Geralt. 

He moaned in pain and confusion, twisting and writhing. At the start, Jaskier would sob, and beg them to stop, ask why they were doing this, but it was all for nothing. 

The final waves of trembling numbness shook through his body. He could feel his fingers and toes, the cold air as it danced around his naked body, as he finally gathered his wits... A drop of something was dripped into his open mouth, and it tingled his tongue. He didn't move. 

"Witchers," Vesemir began to speak, slowly walking towards Jaskier. "...Don't have many luxuries, bard. You know this, from traveling alongside one for decades."

Jaskier's muscles began to tighten and he stared, eyes wide at the Master Witcher. 

"It's been hundreds of years since we have put this practice away, never to look back at it. It was deemed cruel, even to us." 

Vesemir stalked away. He grabbed an iron poker out of a small nearby fire pit. The tiny flames were kept hot from _igni._

"But my children like you, bardling. They like you more than they ever care to admit."

Vesemir returned to Jaskier's side, holding aloft an iron rod, a _branding iron._ Used on livestock and embedded in slaves to ensure ownership.   
Jaskier had a feeling he was neither of those. The possibilities of what he could be made him freeze in fear.

"I have made the executive decision, Jaskier, to pull this tradition out from it's hiding place, to gift my sons the one thing they desire more than following The Path." 

Jaskier began sobbing again as he looked at the iron, and just the thought of the pain it would cause made him want to die. The white-hot tip, clouds swirling around it and steaming in the cool air. His gut was churning and he fought his binds, muttering real words for the first time in hours.

"No. No, please..."

Vesemir stared into Jaskier's eyes, past the boundry of his flesh and into his soul, as he positioned the iron and pressed it into Jaskier's pelvis, below his navel and above his crotch, and Jaskier was screaming before it even made contact.

His skin bubbled, the brand searing deeper than surface level, cauterizing the wound with it's heat before his blood could ever spill. All Jaskier felt was pain, shooting from his pelvis to his toes, fingers, his eyes, and for a seconds flash all he could see was white. The nerves below his brand burnt up died, but the pain it signaled throughout his body remained. 

The iron was pulled away, handed to another Witcher who doused it in a barrel of water. Jaskier lay motionless as he breathed, in, out, in out, in... Focusing on not passing out. 

On his skin, was now a circluar scar holding the symbol of the wolf, one he had admired so many times as it was adorned proudly on Geralt's neck. He felt sick. He felt exhausted. Eyes closing on their own accord, he heard Vesemir speak one last time. 

"You are now the bard of Kaer Morhen. The school of the Wolf claims you as their own." 

It's spring. Winter ended weeks ago, and now the ground is littered with tiny flowers and new sprouts emerging out of the wet dirt. 

Geralt doesn't look at him much anymore.

After he saw Jaskier stumble into the clearing, delirious, he held the bard tight and scented him. With a single whiff Geralt's muscles were tensing, tightening, and he looked furiously up at the walls of Kaer Morhen like the place had insulted him, had taken away something important from him. He left Jaskier with Roach and stalked back to the castle, and he laid in the cold wet grass, dazed. He didn't know what day it was. He wasn't sure what he looked like. The Witchers had given him his things and told him to go after he woke, the brand now cleaned and healed, a mark in his skin forever.

He still felt it tingling under his shirt. Geralt returned with a busted lip and looked like death. 

The White Wolf held Jaskier and shook like he was in pain, and if Jaskier were a Witcher like him, he'd think he smelt tears forming in Geralts eyes. But of course he didn't - he was a bard. 

The bard of Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt doesn't look at him much anymore, and it's a shame, because he's the only Witcher he wants to know, wants to be looked at by. It seems like whatever they did to Jaskier affects Geralt more deeply than he lets on. 

He doesn't get changed in front of Geralt anymore, either. It just seems wrong. Like he's betrayed Geralt, somehow, with this mark identical to his pendant. But that can't be right - if he belongs to the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, then he belongs to Geralt too, right?

... Maybe that's the problem. He doesn't want to be owned, and Geralt knows. He respects that. He _cares._

Jaskier wished he never went to Kaer Morhen. 

"Stop-" Jaskier wheezes, tears already threatening to spill, "Please, Gods, you can't-!"

He was being groped, manhandled, like a possession instead of a person. Geralt is tracking a beast, Jaskier had come into town to find an inn, and then he made the mistake of making eye contact with a Witcher leaving the closest brothel. 

Jaskier's senses went alight, and everything around him was drowned out into the background as the Witcher stalked towards him, and he knew without his alarmingly heightened sense of smell or strange tingling on his brand that the Witcher was a wolf. A wolf who was coming to claim something he owned, and Jaskier turned on his heel to run but was caught before he could take another step, dragged into an alley and pinned with his chest against the slippery stone walls. 

The Witcher was one Jaskier didn't recognize by face, wasn't present during his nightmarish trials, but he seems to have gotten the memo as he rips the bard's shirt open and yanks his pants below his knees.

"STOP, please, for the love of-" 

His cheek is slammed into the wall and the wolf growls, deep in his throat. 

"You can't fight it. You can't. You belong to us, bardling, whoever you are, I can smell it on you. This ritual hasn't been... it's been centuries since we had one. You're _ours._ "

Thick and rough fingers graze Jaskier's navel and pelvis, looking, looking, and then when he feels the raised scars of the damned brand low on his body, he digs his fingers against the mark painfully. Jaskier lets out an agonized sound, almost falling to his knees, but the wolf keeps him upright, keeps his steady, as his slick cock starts to slide between Jaskier's ass and catch at his unprepared rim. 

The mutant could barely speak, just groaning, just panting against Jaskier's neck and scenting him, as if he were some delicious banquet laid before every Witcher of the Wolf School to dive into and feast upon. 

"You're perfect," he finally grunts into Jaskier's ear as he starts to push inside, the slick on his cock barely enough to stop the wave of pain that shoots up Jaskier's body. "You were made for this, weren't you? Made to take a Witcher's cock. Gods, I'm going to _ruin_ you."

He sobs. Even as he fights, he's not match for the strength of a mutant. Whatever they did to him, however they altered his body during those sickening trials, he's now a beacon to the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, available for them to claim if they catch him and see fit. Jaskier has no say, had no say as it was happening to him, and certainly has no way of stopping it now. He tries. He tries. He wishes Geralt were here, even if he couldn't do anything.

The Witcher fucks him ruthlessly, and it hurts. There's something different about his body, his mind, a sort of second voice that tells Jaskier he's supposed to be quiet and pliant, that this will hurt less if he accepts his fate and gives his soul to Kaer Morhen and his captors. He can't listen to it, feels sick just thinking about it, and the pained gasps and wails Jaskier makes only makes the wolf moan and fuck him faster. 

He releases inside Jaskier, bites at his shoulder until he bleeds. Swirls his hips as he fucks his spend into the bard. Jaskier is breathing shallowly, and when the beast finally pulls out the noise he makes is beyond pitiful, a half breath half whine that the Witcher responds to with cooing and purrs. Absentmindedly, his palm rubs over the brand on Jaskier's lower belly. 

He will never be the same again, because the bard of Kaer Morhen has only one purpose, he knows now; to please the wolves who come to him. 

Jaskier falls into a heap against the stone wall and stays there until the sky turns orange and the sun starts to fade. When Geralt finds him, finally, he can't do anything. He can't take away the brand, he can't remove the magic they ingrained into his musician's soul, he can't curse out his brothers and beat them to a pulp in his rage. So he takes Jaskier in his arms and apologizes for everything, nearly weeping.

Jaskier will never be the same again.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for the Witcher server, y'all are freaks and i love you !


End file.
